Where in Middle earth is Bilbo Baggins?
by HonorH
Summary: It was a hot day in Eriador when *they* came into Digger's office, demanding that he find out what happened to Bilbo Baggins. (Mini-Balrog in title not my fault) FINISHED
1. The Mysterious and Short Visitors!

Disclaimer: Tolkien owns all, and Peter Jackson did the time-compressing I'm borrowing. I own Digger.  
  
Note: This follows movie canon more closely than book canon because I needed the compressed time. For the record, I have read the books, and I'm even reading "The Silmarillion". The diversions from book canon are purely for convenience.  
  
Note II: This is Fiction Noir set in Middle-earth. Think Bogie, think Spillane, think private eyes who drink too much, think black and white and cheesy sax music. Think old serials. This being the case, it'll be posted one chapter a day. Hang with me and enjoy the ride.  
  
Where is Bilbo Baggins?  
  
By  
  
HonorH  
  
It was a hot day in Eriador, the kind of day that makes you think Mordor might not be such a bad deal, if the orcs were a little friendlier. I've been to Mordor. Been just about everyplace else, too. I've gotten kicked out of taverns in Osgiliath, had my horse stolen out from under me on the plains of Rohan, been chased out of Mirkwood with an arrow in my ass, I've even dodged axes in Moria. On that hot day in the village of Bree, though, something happened that would make all of those things seem like pleasant memories.  
  
The name's Digger, and I'm a private eye. I keep an office in the village of Bree by the Prancing Pony. There's not much work for an Gondorian ex- soldier who got kicked out of the service for messing around with his CO's wife (Finduilas pined away for the sea? Hah! In Denethor's dreams!), but I get by. I've been a bouncer at the Prancing Pony, played bodyguard for a fat half-elf with delusions of grandeur, and roughed up debtors on commission. Mostly, I get hired to spy on neighbors during property disputes or catch cheating spouses.  
  
But all that came to a crashing halt the day she walked into my office.  
  
I was sitting at my desk, nursing an ale and a pipe, when in walked trouble in a very small package. Two very small packages. You don't see hobbits much outside the Shire. Peculiar little folk--they stick to their own. I could see these two weren't comfortable inside the office of one of the Big Folk, and a voice inside my head started wondering just why they were knocking on my door.  
  
He was a twitchy little guy with a scrunched-up face like he was used to having his head knocked on. She looked like she was used to doing the knocking. I figured out right away I shouldn't trust 'em as far as they could throw me. But hey, money is money, and I'd heard that hobbits could be counted on to pay their bills, so I figured, what's the worst that could happen?  
  
Next time: The worst that could happen! 


	2. The Worst that Could Happen!

"Are you Mr. Digger?" asked the hobbit woman while the man looked nervously around my office.  
  
"Who's asking?" I asked her.  
  
She pulled herself up to her full height, which wasn't much past my knees, and said, "I'm Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, and this is my husband, Otho."  
  
"Afternoon," said Otho when his wife glared at him.  
  
"We've got a proposition for you, Mr. Digger," Lobelia went on. "We're willing to pay handsomely for your talents."  
  
Something about this was making my hair stand on end. It didn't help that the two of them reminded me of the twitchy, curly little dogs one of my exes used to keep. Why were a couple of hobbits going outside the Shire to one of the Big Folk with their business?  
  
I know a little more about hobbits than your average Man. A little fellow named Oliver works with me sometimes, getting into places I can't, and he's taught me a few things about where he comes from. I knew that the two in front of me were from the very top of hobbit society. They were wealthy and probably well-connected. What could they possibly need from me that they couldn't get in the Shire?  
  
I should've just sent them away, but I needed the money I knew they could pay me. Money. It's a cruel mistress. Makes you feel on top of the world one day, and leaves you the next, right when you need it most.  
  
"What's your proposition?" I heard myself asking. It sealed my fate.  
  
"We need you to find Bilbo Baggins," said Otho, and he'd probably have said more if his wife hadn't elbowed him in the gut.  
  
"The truth is, Mr. Digger," she said, "that we think Bilbo might've come to a bad end. He's a dear relation of ours." Otho coughed. "Many years ago, he took in his nephew, Frodo. Frodo comes from the disreputable side of our family, the one connected with the," her face got even more pinched, "Tooks and Brandybucks. As I said, Bilbo took in young Frodo out of the goodness of his heart after Frodo's parents died in a mysterious accident. They drowned, could you believe? It's very suspicious that they died and their son lived, if you ask me. Now, Bilbo just turned 111, and at his birthday party, why, he disappeared!"  
  
"You mean he left his own party?" I asked.  
  
"No, he disappeared," said Lobelia. "Poof! Right in front of everybody and all. That so-called 'wizard' Gandalf was there and tried to pass it off as a party trick, but here's the thing: nobody's seen Bilbo since! Frodo now claims Bilbo went on a trip--he was working on a book of some sort--and left him all of Bag End. That's Bilbo's house, by the by. Left him Bag End and all his possessions, even the ring he carried with him everywhere." She thumped her husband in the belly again. "Otho and I think it stinks."  
  
I filled my pipe again and lit it. "What do you think the story is?" Everybody's always got their pet theory, and it saves time if you find out up front what they want you to confirm for them.  
  
"Well," said Lobelia, "there's been a story going 'round for years that Bilbo had hidden away some treasure. It was ridiculous, of course- something about it being part of a dragon's hoard--but there were some foolish souls who placed great stock in it. We figure young Frodo heard about it, and when his uncle wouldn't let him in on it--" Lobelia clapped her hands together, "--murdered him! And he got that no-account Gandalf in on it, too. Probably promised him a percentage or whatnot."  
  
I could see where this was headed, and it wasn't a place I wanted to go. I found out the hard way that when you're a Man, you keep your nose out of matters that don't concern Men. My misgivings were wrestling with my need for money, which usually wins two falls out of three in situations like this.  
  
"What do the other Shirefolk think?" I asked, hoping the delay would wake up my good sense.  
  
Lobelia got more pinched than ever. "Oh, they're all crazy about young Frodo, think he's the greatest thing since pipe-weed! I'll tell you: that one has the face of a Maia, but the heart of a Balrog. Mark my words. We know him better than most, and we know his branch of the family. Nothing good ever came from them; no, sir!"  
  
The screaming emptiness of my moneybag drowned out the sensible little voice in my head, and I heard myself saying, "So all you want is for me to find out what happened to Bilbo Baggins?"  
  
"That's exactly it, Mr. Digger," said Otho. I don't know what he did wrong that time, but Lobelia elbowed him again.  
  
"We want you to find out what Frodo had to do with his disappearance, too," she said. "I don't trust that young one at all, and I don't mind telling you that, Mr. Digger."  
  
I didn't think she did, considering she'd already said as much four or five times. I took a long drag on my pipe, wishing I was a better man, a man who'd send these two packing from his doorstep. But I wasn't.  
  
"I'll take the case," I said.  
  
Next time: The Thin Hobbit! 


	3. The Thin Hobbit!

Once the Sackville-Bagginses left my office, I had time to think about what I'd just done. I took a long look at it, and what I saw was ugly: I'd just accepted a job I should never have considered from two people I should never have let into my office. How do you find out what happened to one small hobbit in all of Middle-earth?  
  
My first instinct was to send a message to Oliver. Two days later, he showed up on my doorstep, and I took him over to the Prancing Pony for a meal and some ale.  
  
Word to the wise: never offer to feed a hobbit unless you've got either a full moneybag or a tavern owner who knows you're good for the balance. I could see I'd be smoothing things over with Butterbur after Oliver was finished eating us both out of house and home.  
  
When I finally got the little guy's attention away from his food and ale, I asked him what he knew about the Bagginses.  
  
"Peculiar folks," said Oliver, lighting his pipe. "Most hobbits--with the notable exception of yours truly--like to stick close to home. Word has it, though, that some, oh, fifty or so years ago, old Bilbo Baggins went hiring off with a wizard and a bunch of dwarves to places like Mirkwood and the Misty Mountains. Say he came back with part of a dragon's hoard, too, and is rich as a king."  
  
"What about Frodo Baggins?"  
  
"Haven't heard too much about him, only that he's supposedly to inherit his uncle's wealth, and he's one highly eligible bachelor in Hobbiton. Good- looking chap, too, if the gossip's to be believed."  
  
I told Oliver about my meeting with the Sackville-Bagginses and what they'd told me.  
  
"Huh!" said Oliver. "Hadn't heard anything about old Bilbo disappearing. Wouldn't put it past him, though, even at his age. Interesting that the Sackville-Bagginses brought it up to you, though."  
  
"Why do you say that?" I asked. I knew why I thought it was strange, but I wanted to hear what Oliver thought.  
  
"Because there's no love lost between Bag End and the Sackville-Bagginses, that's why." Oliver gestured with his pipe. "Scuttlebutt around the Shire says that they always wanted Bag End for themselves and couldn't believe Bilbo wasn't gracious enough to kick the bucket when it was convenient for them. 'Course, it's all academic now; young Frodo's probably set up housekeeping, and who knows how long he'll live?"  
  
My brain was churning like storm clouds over Caradhras. If the Sackville- Bagginses wanted Bag End, the combination of Bilbo being dead or out of the picture and Frodo being blamed for his disappearance would suit them right down to their hairy little feet. That answered for their motivations, but it still left me with the puzzle of what happened to Bilbo Baggins.  
  
"I need you to do some digging for me," I said to Oliver. "Nothing big; just sit in on a few conversations at the tavern in Hobbiton and see what you can hear."  
  
Oliver made a show of unclogging his pipe. "Love to help you, Digger, I really would," he said, "but I had a, er, business dispute with the owner of the Green Dragon a few months back, and somehow I doubt I'd be welcome."  
  
"What kind of business dispute?"  
  
The little guy gave me that innocent look that only children and hobbits can pull off without looking stupid. "He seemed to think my bar tab was somewhat higher than I thought it was--or should be, rather--and I thought it wise to remove myself from the premises before he got too insistent on the matter. Avoiding conflict, if you catch my meaning." He hopped down from his stool before I had a chance to say anything. "Lovely catching up with you, Digger, and best of luck on the case."  
  
With that felicitation hanging in the air along with his pipe smoke, Oliver was gone, leaving me with my thoughts. No matter which way they twisted or turned, they always ended up in the same place:  
  
If I wanted to crack this case, I was going to have to go to the Shire myself.  
  
Next time: Big Man in the Shire! 


	4. Big Man in the Shire!

As a private eye, I like to be inconspicuous. As I entered Hobbiton, though, I knew I stood out like . . . well, like a Man among hobbits. Round hobbit faces watched me as I walked down the main road toward the tavern. Tiny hobbit children followed me at a distance like a flock of curious lambs.  
  
Humans enter the Shire for only two reasons: first, to buy, sell, or trade; or second, because they're too stupid to know they're not welcome. I decided to go with the second reason. My Mama always said I wasn't a bright one, so I figured it wouldn't be too hard to convince the hobbits of that.  
  
I was wearing travel-stained clothes and a few days' worth of scruff on my face. One of my exes says I look better when you can't see my whole face. I walked into the tavern, which was just barely big enough for me to stand up in, and smiled my stupidest smile at all the wide eyes fixed on me.  
  
"Can I help you, sir?" asked a voice near my knees. I looked down at the prettiest hobbit maid you'd ever want to see. Tiny, but with enough curves for a girl twice her size and blue eyes that had probably won every male heart in the Shire twice over.  
  
"Much obliged, little mistress," I said, faking a country accent. "I've been traveling long, and I was wonderin' if I could perhaps get meself a decent hot meal and a sip or two of ale, if you don't mind."  
  
She gave me a smile to break the heart. "We've got a table for the big folk over this way," she said, and I followed her to a table just large enough for maybe two Men to sit at. "Have a seat. I'll bring you out an ale and food. The portions will be small to you, no doubt, but there'll be lots of them. I never met a Man who could eat as much as some of these." She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at a rowdy party of young hobbit men.  
  
I watched them while the hobbit maid went for my food. There was a table full of older hobbit men, with one younger hobbit among them. The old men were talking, but the young one had his eyes on the pretty hobbit maid who'd talked to me. He had it bad, I could see.  
  
Suddenly, there was a commotion. I thought it was the beginning of a hobbit bar brawl at first, but then I saw two young hobbits climbing up onto a table to sing a drinking song. Another hobbit lad danced around the table with his hands full of mugs while they sang.  
  
"Those lads." The pretty maid had reappeared with a full tray and clambered up onto a wooden box to be tall enough to serve me. She unloaded a half-pint of ale and plates of cheese, bread, meat swimming in gravy, potatoes, and vegetables onto the table. "They always get drunk and end up making fools of themselves. Their headaches come morning will serve them right."  
  
"You're a hard-hearted one, little mistress," I told her. Just then I caught her stealing a glance at the young man sitting with the older hobbits. "But not too hard-hearted. Is he your sweetheart?"  
  
She giggled and winked, and a sweeter giggle and wink you've never known. "We're working on it. Enjoy your meal, sir. My name's Rosie, so you call me if you need anything else, see?"  
  
Barliman Butterbur could learn a few things from these hobbits was what I thought when I dug into my meal. It was the best food I'd had since my second wife packed up and left, and the ale tasted like Eru's own private reserves.  
  
I was giving half an ear to the older hobbits' conversation. Strange folks abroad, war brewing-it sounded to me like the gossip around the Prancing Pony. Then one of them made my brain stand up and take notice.  
  
"You're beginnin' to sound like old Bilbo Baggins!" he said. "Cracked, he was."  
  
"Young Mr. Frodo here," said another one. "He's crackin'!"  
  
"And proud of it!" said a young voice.  
  
I'd found him without even trying. Sometimes, you just get lucky, I thought as I turned a little to get my first good look at Frodo Baggins.  
  
Little did I know that luck wasn't on my side.  
  
Next time: Frodo Baggins and the Mysterious Visitor! 


	5. Frodo Baggins and the Mysterious Visitor...

Frodo Baggins, suspected murderer, didn't exactly fit the bill. He was small even up to the other hobbits, and what the Sackville-Baggins woman had said about him having the face of a Maia was no exaggeration. I've seen elves that weren't as pretty. Female elves. He was all curly brown hair and big blue eyes, and all I could think about was how many human women I knew who'd love to cuddle him. Could a kid who looked like him really kill anyone?  
  
Maybe. Maybe not. Prettiest woman I ever knew poisoned her husband and her neighbor's wife, then ran off with the neighbor.  
  
I sat and listened to the hobbits' conversation while I ate. From time to time, Rosie the pretty little barmaid refilled my ale or brought me something new to eat and got me thinking about the logistics of having a hobbit wife.  
  
Pretty soon, though, Frodo himself got my attention back on track.  
  
"I just got a letter from Bilbo, in fact," he said.  
  
"What'd the old crackpot have to say?" asked one of the grumpy old hobbits.  
  
"Not much. Just that he's fine, and that he found himself a quiet place to stay and work on his book. He also asked after the Shire and Bag End and told me to drown the Sackville-Bagginses in the mill pond if they were still pestering me."  
  
All the hobbits at the table laughed, and the other young one said, "I'd help you hide the bodies if you did, Mr. Frodo."  
  
"Wonderful!" cried Frodo, slapping the table. "Let's do it tonight, Sam!"  
  
They all raised a tankard to the proposition. I was getting the feeling the Sackville-Bagginses weren't the best-loved couple in the Shire. Mordor, I'd barely had them in my office for ten minutes, and I wanted to kill them. Still, knowing what they said about Frodo, I had chills running down my spine.  
  
A little while later, when the barmaids started getting that look that said they'd been propositioned one too many times and needed sleep, I paid my bill, leaving a hearty tip for Rosie, and left.  
  
Any man in my position knows how to stay out of sight, but among the hobbits, it was trickier than usual. Lucky for me, Hobbiton's got plenty of greenery to hide behind. I watched from a distance as Frodo and the one called Sam left the tavern, then carefully trailed them up to Bag End. The fact that they were both on the tipsy side helped me out. Finally, Frodo waved to Sam and opened his gate. I waited until Sam had ambled around the bend and Frodo had disappeared into his cozy little hobbit-hole before I approached.  
  
I'd just been meaning to scout the place out, look for entrances and exits and windows so I could come back and take a better look later, when Frodo wasn't home. That plan bit the dust when I realized Frodo wasn't alone: someone was inside with him.  
  
As quietly as I could, I moved away from the road to a more sheltered side of the hobbit-hole. I found a window there and sat down to listen.  
  
The conversation inside was hushed, but it didn't take long for me to realize something about the whole thing smelled worse than Bree on a hot day. I kept hearing about a ring Bilbo had found, and the name Sauron came up more times than I wanted to hear.  
  
I'm an investigator; I like things that are solid, that you can see with your own eyes and hold with your own hands. All of this religious mumbo- jumbo about Rings of Power and Dark Lords sounded like a pile of horse manure to me, but Frodo sounded scared. I'd already realized who his visitor was: Gandalf, the so-called "wizard". Blows through Bree once in a while, bringing a lot of gossip with him, then blows right back out, having done absolutely nothing to earn it.  
  
Maybe Gandalf's reputation did it, or maybe it was Frodo's Big Blue Eyes, or maybe it was the fact that I liked the stuff that got on my shoes better than the Sackville-Bagginses, but I started to wonder if Frodo might just be a pawn in all this. Things weren't adding up.  
  
A second later, I had to re-figure all my equations. Frodo was running around his house, packing like his life depended on it. "Make for the village of Bree," I heard Gandalf say. I knew I had to beat Frodo there, and I started thinking about the quickest ways to get home. Just as I started to move away from my window, though, I heard Gandalf bark at Frodo to get down.  
  
I froze. Had Gandalf heard me? I was pretty sure I could take the old man, but I didn't want the mess. Turned out, though, I didn't have to worry: Gandalf had caught Sam spying on them. I wondered why the little fellow had come back to Frodo's house, and what Gandalf would do to him now.  
  
Nothing much . . . except send Sam on the same wild goose chase to Bree that Frodo was on. What in Mordor was going on?  
  
I was still asking that question when the three of them left Bag End. When it was safe, I eased away from the house and got out of Hobbiton just as dawn was breaking.  
  
I like my jobs simple and neat. This was turning out to be neither. I didn't like it. I didn't like it at all.  
  
Next time: Hobbits in Bree and Stranger Things! 


	6. Hobbits in Bree and Stranger Things!

It was a risky thing, trying to reach Bree ahead of Frodo Baggins. I had no guarantee that Bree was actually where he'd end up, and if he didn't, I stood a good chance of losing him for good. Still, if he did make it to the village, I was sure I'd be able to find him. Hobbits aren't common enough in Bree to not generate gossip. Besides, my office was right beside the Prancing Pony. Theoretically, all I had to do was get there, then watch and wait.  
  
Luck seemed to be on my side when, a month later, young Billy Butterbur knocked on my door in the middle of a rainstorm to tell me four hobbits had just arrived at the Prancing Pony. He said one of them had called himself "Mr. Underhill", and he matched my description of Frodo Baggins. I remembered Gandalf telling Frodo to use an alias outside the Shire. That was enough to send me over to the Prancing Pony.  
  
Sure enough, there was a party of hobbits sitting at one of the small tables, and Frodo Baggins and his friend Sam were among them. I remembered the other two from their song and table-dance at The Green Dragon. I wondered what had possessed Frodo to drag a couple of yahoos like that along if he wanted not to be noticed.  
  
I got an ale, lit my pipe, and sat where I could keep an eye on Frodo and his friends. Didn't take long for Sam to start pointing across the room and whispering to Frodo. I took a look myself.  
  
Strider was keeping an eye on my quarry. He's a tough guy, a Northern Ranger. Got a big reputation around town--folks tell all kinds of stories about him, half of which ten men couldn't do. No one knows exactly where he's from, what his real name is, or how old he is. Looks Gondorian to me, but that doesn't seem exactly right. Some say he's got elf blood. Me, I think he's got a Dunlander in the woodpile.  
  
My big question was why he was watching Frodo. Some of the stories around town have Strider being friends with Gandalf. That could complicate things, if Gandalf sent Strider in to keep an eye on Frodo. Gandalf, I could take. Strider was something else altogether. Even though I didn't believe most of the stories people told about him, one thing was easy to see: Strider was a dangerous man.  
  
A sudden ruckus got my attention back on the hobbits. Frodo jumped up from his seat and went running for one of his friends, who was seated at the bar. Then he slipped . . . and he disappeared.  
  
Right into thin air. I never saw anything like it. One second, he was lying on the floor. The next, he was just gone. I heard a couple of words that would've made my Mama wash my mouth out with soap, and I realized I was saying them.  
  
The whole scene replayed itself in my head: Frodo running for his friend, slipping on spilled ale, falling back--and flinging something shiny up toward the ceiling. The something shiny had fallen back toward Frodo, he reached for it, and that was when he disappeared. The way Lobelia said Bilbo had at his birthday party.  
  
The story was just getting stranger. I stood up. There was enough chaos in the room that no one would notice me actively looking for Frodo myself. Then I realized someone had beaten me to it. Strider was hustling Frodo out of the barroom and up a staircase.  
  
I went to follow, but again, someone beat me to it. Sam and Frodo's other two friends ran to the staircase after Strider and Frodo. By the time I could follow without being seen, there was already shouting coming from a room at the top of the stairs. A few seconds later, Strider came out, trailed by the four hobbits.  
  
The rest of the evening was spent watching from the courtyard while Strider and the hobbits scurried back and forth between two rooms on opposite sides. One was a hobbit-sized room, and the other was regular size. I just wanted to know what the hell they were doing. To me, it looked like they were trying to throw someone off of Frodo's path.  
  
After two or three trips, Strider sent the hobbits up to the regular-sized room, telling them, "I have something to take care of, but I'll return presently." I sank back into the shadows until he passed me, then followed him outside the inn.  
  
It's embarrassing when you fall into the oldest trap in the known world, especially if you're supposed to be a professional. I'd barely taken one step into the quiet street when someone grabbed me and threw me up against a wall. It was Strider.  
  
"What is your business?" he demanded. "Why do you follow the hobbits?"  
  
I decided to bluff, just to see how serious he was. "What do you mean? I'm not following anybody!"  
  
He wasn't buying. "Frodo is not the only one I have watched this night. What is your interest in him?"  
  
Damn. This guy was good. The only thing left to do was go on the offensive. "What's your story? I've got a legitimate business in this town, but you? You could've fleeced half of Rohan before getting chased here. What're you doing with those hobbits?"  
  
"Something that does not concern you," he growled, menace in his eyes. "If you value your life, stay out of this."  
  
"That a threat?"  
  
"A warning. There are forces at work here that do not look kindly on interlopers. Take my advice: if you do not wish to come to harm, stay away from Frodo Baggins." He let me go and moved away, back toward the inn.  
  
Call it an instinct, but I knew this was my last chance to get any information. My only hope was to lay all my cards on the table. "Bilbo Baggins," I called after him.  
  
Strider stopped and looked at me. "What?"  
  
"I was hired to find Bilbo Baggins," I said. "That's why I'm following Frodo."  
  
Men like Strider and me can tell when someone's telling the truth. Guess that's what made him answer me.  
  
"Master Bilbo Baggins is at Rivendell," he said. "At the house of Lord Elrond. I hope that satisfies you and whoever hired you."  
  
He walked away, leaving me with my thoughts. I was sure he'd told me all he knew about Bilbo, but that didn't answer any of my questions about Frodo and what was happening here. Against Strider's warning, I decided to stick around.  
  
Looking back now, the rest of the night seems like one long nightmare, the kind you get after smoking bad pipe-weed. I was sitting in the courtyard, thinking, when they appeared.  
  
I don't know what they were, and I don't want to know. All I could see was black cloaks and sharp swords as they rode in on their black horses and dismounted. I pressed myself into the shadows, terrified in a way I haven't been since I was a little boy and my cousin told me orcs would come and get me in my sleep.  
  
They didn't even seem to notice me. There were four of them, and they went straight into the inn and up to the hobbit-sized room Frodo would have been staying in if Strider hadn't moved them. I didn't have any illusions about what would've happened if he'd been there.  
  
I guess Strider got the better of them, from the unearthly shrieks that came from the room. Eru himself would've shuddered at the sound. Me, I ran. I didn't care anymore about Frodo or Bilbo Baggins or Strider or anything except getting to my office and the whiskey I kept there, and drinking until I forgot all about the Black Riders.  
  
But when the next day came, with a troll-sized hangover and reports of demons that had terrorized the town last night, I knew there would be no way I could put this all behind me until I solved the mystery behind all this. To do that, I needed to find Bilbo Baggins.  
  
I needed to go to Rivendell.  
  
Next time: Finding Bilbo! 


	7. Finding Bilbo!

I used some of my practically-nonexistent savings to buy myself a horse that had seen better days and took off for the Shire again. There was something that had been nagging me ever since I'd overheard the conversation with Gandalf. I needed to see the inside of Bag End.  
  
This visit to Hobbiton was completely different from my first one. I left my horse tethered in the woods outside town and snuck in late one night, avoiding the night watchmen.  
  
Bag End was quiet as a grave when I got there, and even less inhabited. I picked the lock and welcomed myself in before I so much as lit my lantern. After I satisfied myself that there really wasn't anyone there, I took my time exploring things.  
  
As far as I could tell, nothing had changed from when Frodo had left. There were still empty drawers hanging open and cold tea in half-empty mugs on the kitchen table. I was in and out of every room that night, and if someone was hiding a dragon's hoard, they managed to hide it from me.  
  
One thing did bring me up short: Bilbo's study. It was a mess. Not the kind of mess you get from someone ransacking the place; the kind of mess that came from someone working very hard on something and not paying attention to the amount of paper on the floor. There were bits and pieces of a manuscript, probably the book I'd heard about, a few miniatures of the Baggins family, including one of Bilbo, and there were maps. Mirkwood, the Misty Mountains, the Shire, and Rivendell, all of them with notes written in somebody's spidery handwriting.  
  
I took the miniature of Bilbo and the map with a route to Rivendell marked on it and left with most of my questions still unanswered. If the Sackville-Bagginses hadn't claimed Bag End already, that meant they didn't realize how long Frodo would probably be gone. My guess was that he left a message, maybe with Sam's family, that he'd be back soon. That meant that they couldn't be working with Gandalf to get Frodo out of the house, but I'd already discarded that theory. Whatever was happening was bigger than just a property dispute.  
  
I set out for Rivendell the next morning, sticking to the main roads. I had my trusty sword tucked under my cloak just in case I ran into trouble on the road, but no one I met offered me any. All of 'em seemed wrapped up in what they were doing, just like me.  
  
My luck held for a little over a month. The road was getting rougher, and the weather was getting unfriendlier, but that wasn't what finally drove me off the main roads and almost made me re-think going to Rivendell.  
  
That happened the night I was awakened by the same, Morgoth-damned screams I'd heard in Bree. Not much scares a man like me. I've seen it all and heard it all in half of Middle-earth, I've fought orcs and wargs, I got married three times, I've been on the bad end of too many grudges held by too many men to count, but those Black Riders just about made me piss myself. I didn't sleep the rest of the night, and come morning, all I wanted to do was saddle my horse and gallop the other way.  
  
By now, though, I was more than halfway to Rivendell. I figured the elves wouldn't take any more kindly to those things than I did, and elves have their ways of keeping things they don't like out of their territory. I checked my map and left the road, figuring I could save time going cross- country.  
  
Stupid decision, even for me. My horse refused to go through the Midgewater Marshes, which meant I had to go around for a few miles, getting eaten by bugs the whole time. I wondered if the hobbits had come this way, and if so, if the mosquitoes hadn't up and carried off a few of 'em. By the time I hit the Fords of Beruin, my horse was almost as disgusted with me as I was. I've done dumb things in my life, but this had to beat all.  
  
That's probably what the first elf to catch me was thinking, too. I'd barely stepped out of the river when I found an arrow pointed right at my face.  
  
"Hold there, stranger," said the elf, a dark-haired fellow who reminded me of my first wife, right down to the disapproving glare he gave me. "What is your business in Imladris?"  
  
Time to try my bluff and see how it flew. "I've got a message for Bilbo Baggins from his relatives. I understand he's staying here?"  
  
"He is," said the elf. He lowered his bow. "Dismount, and come with me."  
  
This was it. I was finally going to meet the guy who started all this. I just hoped he could answer my questions.  
  
Next time: Bilbo Baggins, Hobbit at Large! 


	8. Bilbo Baggins, Hobbit at Large!

I followed the elf for the better part of the afternoon. Half of me was anticipating finally meeting Bilbo Baggins and having everything solved at long last, and the other half was bracing for the next disaster. All of me was exhausted.  
  
Finally, the elf led me into the valley of Rivendell. My work usually takes me to ugly places, the kind that leave you feeling like you've been bathed in slime. This was exactly the opposite. Rivendell was paradise. It was the kind of beauty that makes a man feel unworthy, like he might stain it because he's not good enough to be there. I'm a bold-as-brass kind of guy, but I just about couldn't go on.  
  
I guess the elf caught me hesitating, because he looked at me and said, "You have entered Imladris, Man of the South. You will speak to Lord Elrond and give an accounting of yourself."  
  
Those elves can be pretty persuasive even without pointing arrows at you. I followed him into the valley.  
  
When we got to the House of Elrond, the elf led me to a room and told me to eat and bathe, and someone would be there soon to take me to meet Elrond. Figuring I stank to high heaven, I followed his advice to wash up. By the time I was finished, someone had left supper in my room. I've never been one for fancy food, couldn't even identify what was on my plate, but whatever it was, it was good, and the wine tasted like it had been aged in Valinor itself.  
  
Just as soon as I'd finished eating, another elf showed up. She was a tall, red-haired beauty who reminded me a little of a girl from Rohan who slapped me once. "Follow me," she said. She didn't need to tell me twice.  
  
Rivendell's as pretty by night as it is by day. It felt peaceful, like the world's worries couldn't touch it. The elf girl took me to another building in the compound and waited by the door.  
  
"Enter, stranger," she said. "Lord Elrond awaits."  
  
I walked in, not knowing what to expect. I sure didn't expect five people to be waiting to see me. I sure as Mordor didn't expect to recognize three of them.  
  
There were two elves. One was a tall elf man with dark hair and a face that would've scared my old schoolmaster. I guessed he must be Lord Elrond, and from the look he was giving me, I guessed I'd better have a damn good explanation for being there. The other elf was a woman, and as beautiful as Rivendell was, it couldn't compare to her face. She redefined the word. I got so lost staring at her that it took me a minute to realize Strider was there, too.  
  
He was standing right beside the beauty, wearing clothes that would've suited a lord and looking perfectly comfortable in them. To this day, I wonder what the guy's story is. There's a lot more to him than meets the eye, no doubt about it.  
  
'Course, he was giving me the same look I was giving him: What in Mordor is this guy doing here? Things got even stranger when I realized the other two people present were Gandalf the wizard and, yes, Bilbo Baggins. I checked the miniature I'd stolen from Bag End just to be sure. There was no doubt. It was him.  
  
"I have been informed that you are a spy," said Lord Elrond. "Is this the truth?"  
  
"No," I said, and added, "sir" as an afterthought. Respect seemed to be in order. "I came here with a message for Bilbo Baggins."  
  
"Forgive me, Lord Elrond," said Strider. "I perhaps didn't make myself clear: this man is hired to investigate matters for pay."  
  
"That seems to me the definition of 'spy,'" said Elrond. He looked at me hard, and I could feel his eyes drilling through to my backbone. "And he is not telling the truth about having a message for Master Baggins."  
  
A wise man knows when it's time to suck it up and tell the truth. I never claimed to be wise, but even I could tell bluffing wasn't going to get me any further with this guy.  
  
"You're right," I said. "There's no message. I was hired to find out what happened to Bilbo Baggins by some relatives of his."  
  
"Confound it all, not my relatives!" said Bilbo. "I came here to get away from them."  
  
"Can't say I blame you," I said. "They told me they were afraid you'd come to a bad end and that Gandalf here and maybe your nephew Frodo were in on it. Lobelia and Otho Sackville-Baggins--"  
  
"Oh, Eru, not them!" Bilbo moaned, interrupting me. "Don't let him leave, Elrond; he'll only tell them where I am, and then I'll never have another moment's peace."  
  
That worried me. Rivendell was a nice place to visit, but I wasn't sure I wanted to live there.  
  
"Rivendell is warded against all kinds of evil, Bilbo," said Gandalf. "I'm certain your relations could not pass its borders." I looked at him hard, but I couldn't tell if he was joking or not.  
  
"I don't have to tell them, anyway," I told Bilbo. "Finding you completed the terms of our agreement."  
  
"The question still remains as to whether you can be trusted," said Elrond. "Men of the South have been welcome here in the past, but times are not what they were. Evil is afoot in the world of men, and I would not have Imladris compromised."  
  
For whatever reason, that set off my temper. "I'm not evil. I'm untrustworthy, unreliable, unrefined, and occasionally un-smart, but I'm not evil. I do my job to make a living. I never signed on for getting involved with wizardry, elves, and hobbit politics, being chased by nightmares on black horses, or having Scruffy here throw me around and warn me off. I should probably have taken his advice, but the only problem with that is that I've got more curiosity than is healthy for a man my age, and I want to know just what in Mordor is going on!"  
  
I don't think Elrond was impressed. Neither was Strider. Just as I was expecting the Elf Constabulary to drop in and drag me off at arrow-point, though, Bilbo started laughing. Everyone turned to look at him.  
  
"I think, Lord Elrond," he chuckled, "that this young man and I should have a talk. I don't believe any harm has been done."  
  
Elrond gave me a look that said he wasn't convinced, but he nodded to Gandalf and Strider and walked out. Strider walked up to me.  
  
"You were right," he said. "You should have listened to me." The gorgeous elf woman took his hand and led him away. Some guys have all the luck.  
  
Gandalf was the last to leave. He and Bilbo had a hushed conversation before he finally left, eyeing me like I was some kind of bug.  
  
"Have a seat," said Bilbo, pointing with his cane. "So, you were hired to find me, eh? How did you like my relatives?"  
  
"I think drowning them in the mill pond is a good idea," I said, sitting down and lighting my pipe. He laughed and pulled out his own pipe, and I spent the better portion of the next hour telling him about how much work it was to find him. When I was done, he heaved a great sigh.  
  
"Amazing what lengths those people will go to," he said. "Even accusing Frodo of my murder! I suppose I should've seen that one coming, poor lad. He's here, you know; recovering from a wound dealt to him by one of the Black Riders."  
  
One piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. "So they were just trying to get the house. They figured I wouldn't be able to find you, so they could accuse Frodo of anything they wanted and he'd never be able to prove them wrong. That explains the case. Doesn't explain everything else, though." I took a drag on my pipe. "Why did Frodo leave in the middle of the night? What's Gandalf got to do with it? And who is Strider, anyway?"  
  
"I'm afraid those questions must remain unanswered, my good man," said Bilbo. "Rest here in Rivendell, and then go home, Digger. Go back to Bree. I wish you good luck in extracting payment from the Sackville- Bagginses, and in forgetting the events you've witnessed. Think no more on them. Eru willing, you won't have to."  
  
He stood up carefully, using his cane, and headed for the door. I had one last question for him, though.  
  
"That ring," I said. "It makes you invisible, doesn't it?"  
  
Bilbo stopped. He didn't say anything, and the seconds stretched on. Finally, he said, "It does. Among other things." He looked at me, and I felt like there was a story written in the lines on his face. "Forget it, too. You, at least, can."  
  
That was the last time I ever saw Bilbo Baggins. I stayed in Rivendell for another two days, letting my horse rest and soaking up some peace and quiet. Then I left. On the road away from Rivendell, I passed a contingent of Gondorian lords, a whole group of blond elves, and a brace of dwarves. It all added to the feeling I had that something big was going down, and that those little hobbits I'd followed were somehow going to be in the thick of it.  
  
Not me, though. I'm just a simple investigator, a man for hire, and even though the mystery went on, my job was done.  
  
THE END 


End file.
